Sister Of Deduction
by Shadows Concealed In Darkness
Summary: Dr. John H. Watson is a retired army doctor who meets Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective, through a mutual friend. They move into 221B Baker Street and become close friends, solving crimes together. Sound right? Well,what if Sherlock had a sister? What if she was also a a high-functioning sociopath? Meet Anaya Holmes, a consulting detective and Sherlock's little sister. Enjoy!
1. A Study In Pink: Part 1

**A./ N. Okay, new fic! Sherlock Holmes has a sister peeps! And her name is...*drumroll*...Anaya Holmes! I basically made the name up(although I have discovered it's a real name), because Sherlock and Mycroft are strange names, so why not? This'll be the original episodes, because I have, like, no creativity, just with Anaya in them. Now, say it with me: Uh-ny[n-eye]-yuh. Anaya. Okay. Credit for the transcript goes to the lovely ArianeDeVere. :)**

* * *

"How's your blog going?", the psychotherapist asks.

"Yeah, good.", he answers, clearing his throat. "Very good."

"You haven't written a word, have you?"

"You just wrote 'Still has trust issues'.", he observes, pointing at her notebook.

"And you read my writing upside down. D'you see what I mean?", she asks. "John, you're a soldier, and it's gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

John looks back at her despairingly.

"_Nothing_ happens to me."

* * *

Dr. John H. Watson is walking briskly through Russel Square Garden, limping slightly while leaning on his cane. He walks past a man sitting on a park bench, when, suddenly, the man calls after him.

"John! John Watson!"

John turns around and, after seeing who called his name, smiles and walks back towards the bench.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford.", say the man, holding his hand out. "We were at Bart's together."

John switches his cane to his left hand and shakes Mike's hand.

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike.", he smiles. "Hello."

Mike grins and sweeps an arm vaguely around his body.

"Yeah, I know. I got fat!", he laughs.

John tries to sound as convincing as possible in this situation as he contradicts Mike. Mike ignores his attempts and changes the subject.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?", he asks.

"I got shot.", John says 'as a matter of fact'.

Both John and Mike notice the awkward turn their conversation has taken. Later, they both hold take-away coffees and are sitting side by side on a park bench. John sips his coffee, then turns to look at his friend.

"Are you still at Bart's then?", he asks.

Mike shakes his head.

"Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!"

Both John and Mike laugh at this.

"What about you?", Mike asks. "Just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension.", John explains.

"Ah, but you couldn't bear to be anywhere else.", Mike says knowingly. "That's not the John Watson _I _know."

"Yeah, I'm not the John Watso-", John stops.

Mike looks away awkwardly and sips his coffee. John sighs as he switches his coffee to his other hand and looks down at his left hand, struggling to control the tremor that has started by making a fist. Mike turns and tries to start up the conversation again.

"Couldn't Harry help?", he asks.

"Yeah, like _that's _gonna happen!", John says sarcastically.

Mike shrugs.

"I dunno- get a flatshare or something?"

"Come on, who'd want _me_ for a flatmate?"

Mike chuckles softly.

"What?", John asks.

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today.", he laughs.

"Who was the first?", John asks curiously.

* * *

At St. Bartholomew's Hospital Morgue, Sherlock Holmes unzips a body lying on a table and peeks at the corpse inside. He sniffs thoughtfully, then looks at the two women at his side, one of whom is also looking curiously at the dead body in front of her.

He ignores the first women and asks the women next to her wearing an auburn pony-tail, "How fresh?"

"Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes.", she reports, then adds, "He used to work here, I knew him. He was nice."

Sherlock zips the bag closed and straightens up. He gives the girl a false smile.

"Fine, we'll start with the riding crop."

The women to his right, who had being looking at the corpse along with Sherlock, becomes visibly excited at this.

A short while later, the body is out of the bag and is lying on the table on its back. Outside, looking in through a large window, the women with bright auburn hair, Molly, flinches as Sherlock violently and repeatedly flogs the body with a riding crop. Beside him is the other women, Anaya, taking notes on a clipboard. Sherlock finishes as Molly walks back in and he straightens.

"So, bad day, was it?", she asks amusedly.

Sherlock ignores her attempt at a joke and pulls out a notebook, beginning to write in it.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

Molly looks at him nervously as she asks, "Listen, I was wondering...maybe later, when your finished..."

Sherlock glances at her as he writes, looking at her curiously, and frowns slightly.

"Are you wearing lipstick?", he asks. "You weren't wearing lipstick before."

Anaya almost face-palms.

Molly fidgets nervously as she answers, "I, er...I refreshed it a bit.

She smiles at him, but Sherlock simply continues with his notes. Anaya frowns slightly, noticing this.

"Sherlock...", she starts.

"Sorry...", he mutters. "You were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee.", Molly explains.

Sherlock closes his notebook and smiles.

"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs."

He walks away as Molly stares after him.

"...okay."

Anaya rolls her eyes and smile apologetically at Molly.

"You know how he is.", she sighs.

Molly nods and walks off to get Sherlock his coffee.

* * *

Later, at Bart's lab, Sherlock stands in front of a microscope, looking at a petri dish, while Anaya sits down in a chair nearby, looking at some documents. He squeezes out a few drops of liquid onto it as someone knocks on the door. As Mike enters the room with John right behind him, Sherlock glances up at them for a brief moment, then continues with his work. Anaya looks up as well, but she actually manages a polite smile before returning to her papers. John limps into the lab and looks around him at all the equipment.

"Well, bit different from my day.", he says.

"You have no idea!", laughs Mike, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock sits down and asks, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?", Mike asks.

"He prefers to text.", Anaya sighs, not looking away from her papers.

"Sorry. It's in my coat.", Mike tells him.

John reaches into his back pocket, taking out his phone, and holds it out to Sherlock.

"Er...here. Use mine."

"Oh. Thank you.", says Sherlock, finally noticing John's presence.

Sherlock stands up and walks towards John as Mike introduces him. Anaya puts down the documents, looking at the three people in front of her curiously.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson."

Sherlock takes John's phone from his hands and flips it open, practically ignoring him and Mike. He turns slightly to the side as he begins to type.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?", he asks suddenly, still typing.

John frowns and Mike smiles. He looks at Sherlock confusedly as he continues typing.

"Sorry?"

_'I knew it he wouldn't last...', _Anaya thinks with an inward smile.

"Which was it– Afghanistan or Iraq?", repeats Sherlock.

He glances at the shorter man for a moment before looking back to the phone. John glances confusedly at Mike, who just smiles like he knows something John doesn't. Anaya is actually quite enjoying this, so she pushes her chair back and strides over to the three men standing across the room.

"Afghanistan.", John answers. "Sorry, how did you know...?"

Anaya is about to explain for Sherlock, when Molly comes into the room holding a mug of coffee.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.", says Sherlock.

He closes John's phone as Molly hands him the mug. He stares at her for a moment, then speaks.

"What happened to the lipstick?", he asks.

Anaya sighs and holds her forehead in her right hand as Molly smiles awkwardly at him.

"It wasn't working for me.", she explains nervously.

Sherlock tilts his head slightly.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too...small now."

He turns, gesturing towards her with his free hand, and strides back to his petri dish, taking a sip of his coffee. He grimaces at the taste, but a glare from Anaya forces him to stop.

"Okay...", Molly replies quietly.

She sighs and walks back towards the door. Once again Anaya glares at Sherlock, but this time he ignores her. Looking at the dish in front of him, he narrows his eyes slightly before putting it back down.

"How do you feel about the violin?", he asks suddenly, not turning away from his petri dish.

John looks back at Molly, thinking she was the one asking him something, but she's already on her way out. He glances at Mike, but he's (still) smiling. As he glances at Anaya, she nods her head towards Sherlock. He finally turns back to look at Sherlock, and realizes that it was he who asked him.

"I'm sorry, what?", he asks confusedly.

Sherlock pulls forward his laptop and types on it as he continues talking to John.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking.", he explains. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end."

Sherlock finally turns to looks at John.

"Would that bother you?", he asks.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.", Anaya continues, leaning against the counter near Sherlock. "I'm on the internet often, by the way. I also tend to have my nosed buried in a book at times and might not respond to anybody who speaks to me. Hope that won't be a problem."

Sherlock gives John a horribly fake smile as he stares at the two brunettes blankly. He then glances at Mike.

"Oh, you...you told them about me?", John asks.

"Not a word.", Mike replies.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?", he asks.

Sherlock steps away from the counter and puts on a long, dark grey coat as Anaya sighs and explains for him.

"I did. Sherlock told Mike this morning that he must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Besides me of course, though he's trying to get out of living with me.", she smirks and Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Now here is Mike with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Really wasn't that difficult a leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?", John asks.

Both Sherlock and Anaya ignore his question as they put on their coats. Sherlock wraps a dark blue scarf around his neck, adjusting it to his grey trench coat, and checks his phone while Anaya pulls on a slightly shorter indigo coat with grey buttons. She adjusts the light grey and black mottled scarf she's put on as Sherlock speaks.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. The three of us ought to be able to afford it together.", Sherlock says, walking towards John. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock. Sorry- gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Of course you did...", Anaya sighs.

She takes her own phone out, quickly glancing at her messages, before pocketing it and following Sherlock. Sherlock puts his own phone back in his coat pocket and walks past John towards the door.

"Is that it?", John asks incredulously.

Sherlock hesitates at the door for a moment before turning back to John.

"Is that what?", he asks.

"We've only just met and now we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

"Ahem...", Anaya warns.

John smiles at two of them in disbelief and looks at Mike...who is _still _smiling. John turns back to the pair in front of him.

"We don't know a thing about each other.", John explains. "I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your names."

Sherlock looks at John intently. Anaya knows that look. Before she can stop him, he speaks.

"I know that you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him– possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic– quite correctly, I'm afraid."

Anaya groans quietly as John glances down at his cane and shuffles his feet awkwardly. Sherlock smirks as he continues.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

He walks past John and out the door, leaving Anaya behind, but not before peeking back in to say something more.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.", Sherlock informs him.

He click-winks at John before looking towards Mike.

"Afternoon."

Mike raises up his hand in a quick goodbye and Sherlock leaves the room, not bothering to wait for Anaya. As the door slams shut behind him, John turns and looks at Mike and Anaya in disbelief. Mike shrugs like he was expecting this, but Anaya grimaces when she sees John's confused look.

"I'm Anaya Holmes, Sherlock's sister.", she offers. "And yeah, he's always like that. We both are."

* * *

**A./ N. Okay guys, first chaptered Sherlock fanfic, so bear with me. :3 I hope you all liked it(because I'm desperately trying to make this a good story)!**

**Please review, your wonderful reviews make my day! :)**

**REVIEW**

**Because Benedict Cumberbatch is AWESOME!**

**REVIEW**


	2. A Study In Pink: Part 2

**A./ N. So, is this any good? I want you honest opinions. :)  
Anyway, he's Chapter 2! Please R&R and enjoy. ;)**

* * *

Later in the day, John is sitting on his bed, flipping open his phone. He flicks through the menu to find 'Messages Sent'. The last message reads:

**If brother has green ladder arrest brother. **  
**SH**

With a puzzled look on his face, John stares at the message for a few seconds, then looks over to the table where his laptop is perched. He stands up and walks over to it. Opening it, he clicks open up a search engine, and types in 'Sherlock Holmes' followed by 'Anaya Holmes' into the search box.

* * *

A while later, at Baker Street, John limps towards a door marked 221B, just as a black cab pulls up at the curb. He knocks on the door as Sherlock and Anaya get out of the cab.

"Hello.", greets Sherlock.

He pays the cabbie as Anaya smiles awkwardly at John. She's wearing a pony-tail this time and her wild curly hair looks like it's struggling to get free.

"Er...hi.", she smiles.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, Miss Holmes.", John greets them.

"Sherlock, please.", insists Sherlock.

They shake hands and John turns to Anaya. He shakes with her as well.

Anaya nods in agreement with her brother and says, "Call me Anaya, please."

John nods and smiles at her, then takes in the outside of the flat.

"Well, this is a primespot. Must be expensive.", he remarks.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving us a special deal. Owes us a favour.", Sherlock explains. "A few years ago, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. We were able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?", John asks.

Anaya shakes her head.

"Oh, no, we _ensured_ it."

She smiles at John as the front door is opened by a lady with grey curly hair and a kind smile, wearing a small dress. She opens her arms out to Anaya and Sherlock.

"Sherlock, Anaya, hello dears!", she smiles.

Sherlock walks into her arms, hugging her briefly, then steps back and presents her to John as Anaya hugs her as well.

"Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson."

"Hello.", Mrs. Hudson greets him after releasing Anaya.

"How do you do?", John asks.

Mrs. Hudson gestures the three inside.

"Come in, come in."

"Thank you.", John says.

"Shall we?", Anaya asks at the door.

John and Sherlock nod.

They enter as Mrs. Hudson closes the door behind them. Anaya walks up the stairs to the first floor, then stops and waits for Sherlock and John to catch up. When they finally reach the top, she opens the door to reveal a large living room. Sherlock follows her inside, John right behind him. He looks curiously around the room and at all the scattered boxes everywhere.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed.", he says.

"Yes. Yes, I think so.", agrees Sherlock. "My thoughts precisely."

Anaya smiles as she looks happily around the flat.

"Yes, I like it here.", she smiles.

"So we went straight ahead and moved in.", Sherlock continues.

At the same time, John says, "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out...oh."

Realizing was Sherlock had said, John looks around embarassedly.

"So this is all...", he starts.

"Well, obviously we can, uh, straighten things up a bit.", Anaya replies awkwardly.

She strides across the room and makes an attempt at tidying up a bit, throwing a couple of folders into a box and taking some unopened envelopes to the fireplace, where she puts them onto the mantelpiece and then stabs a multi-tool knife into them. John notices something else on the mantelpiece and lifts his cane to point at it.

"That's a skull.", he remarks.

"I know.", Sherlock replies. "Friend of mine."

Anaya looks at the skull, and then at John.

"Er...when he says 'friend'...", she starts.

Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson enters the room and picks up a cup and saucer as Sherlock takes off his coat and scarf.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson?", she asks. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two separate bedrooms, aside from Anaya's."

"Of course we'll be needing two.", John answers awkwardly.

Mrs. Huson drops her voice as she speaks.

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here.", she whispers. "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."

John looks expectantly at Sherlock, expecting him to confirm they're not involved in any way, but Sherlock is oblivious to what's happening. Anaya stifles a giggle as John turns to look at her and glares.

_'Why did Mrs. Hudson automatically assume Sherlock and I, instead of Anaya and I? Do I look gay to her? I'm not gay!', _he thinks angrily.

Mrs. Hudson is about to head into the kitchen, but she glances at Sherlock and frowns.

"Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made.", she sighs.

She goes into the kitchen and starts tidying up as John walks over to one of the two armchairs and falls down heavily onto it. He looks over at Anaya, who has taken off her coat and scarf and is still trying to clean up a bit while Sherlock helps her, probably due to Mrs. Hudson's comment.

"I looked you both up on the internet last night.", John says suddenly.

Sherlock turns to look at him and Anaya raises an eyebrow.

"Anything interesting?", Sherlock asks.

John vaguely notices the sparkle well hidden behind Anaya's eyes.

"Found your website, 'The Science of Deduction'.", he says.

Anaya smiles, the corners of her mouth threatening to turn it into a smirk.

"What did you think?", Sherlock asks.

"Yes, did you like it?", asks Anaya.

John throws them an 'are you kidding me' look. Anaya looks bitterly hurt.

"You said that you could both identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.", John answers dubiously.

"Yes.", Anaya frowns. "And I can read your military career in your face and your leg. Just like Sherlock can see your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?", John asks.

Anaya smiles smugly and turns away as Mrs Hudson comes out of the kitchen, reading the newspaper.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock, Anaya? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same.", she smiles.

Anaya walks over to the window of the living room as a car pulls up outside.

"Four.", she corrects, still smiling.

She looks out the window as a man with dark grey hair steps out of a police car. Sherlock joins her at the window and smiles knowingly.

"There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time.", he adds.

"A fourth?", Mrs. Hudson asks.

Anaya and Sherlock turn towards the door as the man walks up the stair enters the living room.

"Where?", Anaya asks automatically.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.", the man answers.

"What's new about this one?", she asks.

"You wouldn't have come to get us if there wasn't something different.", Sherlock adds.

"You know how they never leave notes?", asks the man.

Anaya nods.

"Yes...", says Sherlock, waiting for the man's reply.

"This one did. Will you come?", asks the man.

Anaya's eyes widen with anticipation, though she manges to keep herself composed.

"Who's on forensics?", Sherlock asks.

"It's Anderson."

Sherlock grimaces and Anaya curses, her anticipation momentarily disappearing.

"Anderson won't work with us...", she mutters.

"Well, he won't be your guys' assistant.", says the man.

"I need an assistant.", Sherlock argues..

He glances at Anaya for a moment, but she glares at him.

"Nuh-uh. I won't be your bloody assistant Sherlock.", she says firmly. "I'm your partner, period."

"Will you come?", insists the man.

"Not in a police car.", Sherlock sighs. "We'll be right behind."

"Thank you.", the man sighs, looking relieved of a weight on his shoulders.

Looking at John and Mrs. Hudson for a moment, he turns and hurries off down the stairs. Sherlock and Anaya wait till he's closed the door, then immediately leap into the air. Sherlock clenches his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room happily while Anaya lifts her fists up in the air, also twirling.

Brilliant!", cries Sherlock. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note!"

"God, it's Christmas! Oh, this will be great!", cheers Anaya.

They quickly pull on their coats and scarfs again with broad smiles. Anaya waits for Sherlock at the door while he goes into the kitchen.

"Mrs. Hudson, we'll be late. Might need some food.", he tells her.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.", she replies sternly.

"Something cold will do.", he continues, ignoring her remark. "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

He grabs a small leather pouch from the kitchen table and walks out the door with Anaya, both of them disappearing from view. Mrs. Hudson turns back to John.

"Look at them, dashing about!", she smiles. "My husband was just like Sherlock."

John grimaces at her repeated implication that he and Sherlock are an item.

"But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell.", she continues.

He squirms uncomfortably in his chair.

"I'll make you that cuppa.", Mrs. Hudson smiles, turning toward the kitchen door. "You rest your leg."

She opens the kitchen door, begining to prepare John a cuppa tea. But, before she can, John's voice startles her.

"Damn my leg!", John yells suddenly.

His response was instinctive and he is immediately apologetic as Mrs Hudson turns back to look at him in shock.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry.", he apologizes. "It's just sometimes...this bloody thing..."

He bashes his cane against his leg to emphasize his point.

"I understand, dear; I've got a hip.", Mrs. Hudson smiles knowingly.

She heads back inside the kitchen as John says, "Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you."

"Just this once, dear.", she says. "I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em.", John continues.

"Not your housekeeper!"

John picks up the newspaper Mrs. Hudson put down and looks at the article about someone named Beth Davenport's apparent suicide. Next to a large photograph of Beth is a smaller one showing the man who just visited the flat, identifying him as DI Lestrade. Before he can read anymore, Sherlock's voice interrupts him. He looks up and sees him standing at the living room door with Anaya by his side.

"You're a doctor.", says Sherlock.

It's a statement, not a question.

"In fact, you're an Army doctor.", Anaya continues.

"Yes..."

John gets to his feet and limps towards Sherlock and Anaya at the door.

"Any good?", asks Sherlock.

"Very good.", John confirms.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.", says Anaya.

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet.", continues Sherlock.

"Of course, yes.", John replies quietly. "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

Anaya takes a step forward, her dark grey eyes twinkling and her teeth showing in a curious smile.

"Wanna see some more?", she asks curiously.

"Oh God, yes.", John responds fervently.

Anaya spins on her heel and leads John and Sherlock out of the room and down the stairs.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out.", John calls back.

He follows the pair down the stairs as Mrs. Hudson comes out of the kitchen. Heading after them, Mrs. Hudson tilts her head questioningly.

"The three of you?", she asks.

Anaya is almost at the door, but now she turns around and walks to where Mrs. Hudson is standing at the bottom of the stairs.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them?", Sherlock asks excitedly.

"There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!", cries Anaya.

She pecks Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, bringing forth a smile.

"Look at you two, all happy. It's not decent.", she sighs.

Though, she can't help smiling as Anaya heads back towards the door and opens it for John and Sherlock.

"Who cares about decent?", asks Sherlock. "The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!"

"There's nothing more important!", agrees Anaya.

Sherlock walks out onto the street and hails an approaching black cab.

"Taxi!", he calls.

The taxi pulls up and he, Anaya, and John get in. Then the car drives off again and heads for Brixton. They sit in silence for a long time while Sherlock sits with his eyes fixed on his phone. John keeps stealing nervous glances at the two of them. Meanwhile, Anaya looks outside at the passing scenery, lost in her thoughts. Finally, Sherlock lowers his phone and Anaya looks back towards them.

"Okay, you've got questions.", says Sherlock.

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"Who are you two? What do you do?", asks John.

"What do you think?", Anaya smirks.

"I'd say private detectives...", John answers hesitantly.

"But...?", asks Anaya.

"...but the police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting detective.", says Sherlock. "Only one in the world."

Anaya punches him in the arm, which is easy since he's in the middle.

"Okay, my sister is also a consulting detective. Though I invented the job.", he adds, rubbing his upper arm as Anaya glares at him.

"It took me forever to get the bloody git to let me help him. I'm just as good as he is. Better actually...", she mutters moodily.

"But, what does that mean?", asks John, ignoring their obvious rivalry.

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult us.", explains Sherlock.

"The police don't consult amateurs.", John remarks before he can stop himself.

Anaya and Sherlock both give him a look that says 'oh come on, you can't be serious'.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'. You looked surprised.", says Sherlock.

"Yes, how did you know?", asks John curiously.

"He didn't know, he _saw_.", explains Anaya. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself; it says military. But your conversation as you entered the room..."

_'"Bit different from my day..."'_

"...said 'trained at Bart's', so Army doctor– obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan can be seen above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan– 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'."

John blinks at this sudden and very quickly spoken explanation.

"You said I had a therapist.", he continues, turning to Sherlock.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp– of course you've got a therapist.", Sherlock explains like it's obvious. "Then there's your brother."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock holds John's hand out, which holds his phone.

"Your phone. It's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare– you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then."

John hands him the phone, making it easier for the detective to examine it, and Sherlock turns it over in his hands, looking closely at it.

"Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already.", he smirks.

"The engraving.", John says.

Engraved on the back of John's phone, are the words that read:

**_Harry Watson,_**  
**_From, Clara xxx_**

Anaya takes the phone from her brother's hand and turns it over in her own hands.

"Harry Watson; clearly a family member who's given you his old phone.", she continues, much to Sherlock's (and his ego's) dismay. "Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently– this model's only six months old. Marriage trouble then– six months and he's just given it away. If she'd left _him_, he would have kept it. People do that- sentiment, of course. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left _her_. He gave the phone to _you_; that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help, that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?", John asks her incredulously.

Sherlock smirks.

"Shot in the dark.", he explains, taking back the phone. "Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them."

He hands John his phone back.

"There you go, you see– you were right.", says Sherlock.

"I was right?", John asks confusedly. "Right about what?"

Anaya glances at Sherlock before speaking.

"The police don't consult amateurs."

She gazes out the window again, nervously biting her lip and awaiting John's reaction. Sherlock squirms slightly in his seat and looks away.

"That...was amazing.", John breathes.

Sherlocks turn to look at John with a strange expression and Anaya is so surprised, she can't seem to find something to say for the next few seconds.

"Do you really think so?", she finally asks, an excited twinkle evident in her eyes.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.", John smiles.

"That's not what people normally say.", Sherlock replies thoughtfully.

"What do people normally say?", asks John.

Anaya grimaces.

"'Piss off!'", she sighs.

She smiles at John, who grins and turns away to look out the window as the cab drives toward their destination.

* * *

At Brixton, the cab arrives at Lauriston Gardens. The three of them get out, walking towards the police tape strung across the road.

"Did we get anything wrong?", Sherlock asks.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker.", John confirms.

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect us to be right about everything.", Sherlock smirks, obviously impressed with himself.

"And Harry's short for Harriet.", John finishes.

Sherlock stops dead in his tracks and Anaya dissolves into a fit of laughter. She really doesn't care if she was wrong; the look on Sherlock's face makes up for it completely.

"Harry's your sister...", he says tightly.

"Oh...he got you, Sherlock!", Anaya laughs.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?", John asks in exasperation.

"Sister!", growls Sherlock through gritted teeth.

Anaya snickers quietly, trying to compose herself.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?", John asks again.

Sherlock starts walking again and Anaya manges to compose herself. Neither of them answer John's question, though.

"There's always something.", Sherlock mutters.

When the reach the police tape, they're met by a woman with frizzy hair and a smirk on her face.

"Hello, freaks."

"We're here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade.", says Sherlock, ignoring her 'greeting'.

"Why?", asks the woman, obviously trying anger him.

"We were invited.", Sherlock explains.

"Why?"

"I think he might want us to _take a look_...", Anaya sighs, her voice coated with sarcasm.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?", say the woman, leaning in towards Anaya and smirking.

Sherlock lifts up the yellow police tap and ducks under it before a fight can start. This woman really isn't worth his or Anaya's time.

"Always, Sally.", he growls, breathing in through his nose. "We even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't...", she starts, then stops when she glances at John. "Er, who's this?"

"Colleague of ours, Doctor Watson.", he explains, turning towards John. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan."

Anaya's voice drips with sarcasm as she speaks.

"She an old _'friend'_...", she mutters.

"A colleague? How do _either of you_ get a colleague!?", Donovan says in surprise, turning toward them. "What, did he follow you two home?"

"Would it be better if I just waited and...", John begins.

Sherlock lifts up the tape for Anaya as she passes underneath it, and then for him.

"No."

John walks under the tape as Donovan lifts a radio to her mouth.

"Freaks are here. Bringing them in."

She leads them towards the house where the crime took place. Sherlock looks all around the area while Anaya checks the ground as they approach. When they reach the pavement, a man dressed in a coverall comes out of the house.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.", says Sherlock.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?", Anderson asks, ignoring Sherlock's greeting.

Sherlock takes in another deep breath through his nose.

"_Quite_ clear. And is your wife away for long?", he asks.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out.", Anderson sneers. "Somebody told you that."

'Your deodorant told _both_ of us that.", Anaya remarks.

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men.", states Sherlock.

"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!", cries Anderson.

"So is Sergeant Donovan.", Anaya smirks.

Anderson looks, very much shocked, at Donovan. Anaya sniffs the air to emphasize her statement.

"Ooh, and I think it just vaporised. May I go in?", she asks sweetly.

Anderson turns and points at her angrily.

"Now look, whatever you're trying to imply..."

"Oh, we're not implying _anything_.", she replies, walking past Anderson and towards the door. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just _happened_ to stay over.

She turns back around to face him as Sherlock examines Donovan once more.

"And I assume she scrubbed your floors, judging by the state of her knees.", her brother adds with a smug smile.

Anderson and Donovan stare at them in shocked horror, causing Anaya to giggle evilly and Sherlock to smirk. They head inside the house with matching smiles on their faces. As John walks past Donovan, he briefly looks down to her knees, then follows the two Holmes siblings inside. Sherlock leads them into a room on the first floor, where the man from before, DI Lestrade, is putting on a coverall.

"You need to wear one of those.", Sherlock tells John.

"Who's this?", Lestrade asks them.

He nods toward John.

"He's with us.", Sherlock answers, taking his gloves off as Anaya does the same.

"But who _is_ he?"

"I said he's with us."

John takes off his jacket and picks up a coverall. He glances at Sherlock and Anaya, who are both picking up their own pair of latex gloves.

"Aren't you two gonna put one on?", he asks.

Anaya gives him a look that says 'please John, don't joke'. John just shakes his head.

"So, where are we?", she asks Lestrade.

"Upstairs.", Lestrade replies, also picking up a pair of latex gloves.

* * *

**A./N. I'm so unoriginal...eh. I hope you guys liked this. :)**

**Please review, when no one does, it feels like there's nobody out there reading. :(  
I really want to know what you think. Give me some constructive critism! I need to know how or if I can improve my writing!**

**REVIEW**

**'Cause I feel lonely. :/ (Or, because Jim is a hot pychotic criminal. ;) One or the other.)**

**REVIEW**


	3. A Study In Pink: Part 3

**A./N. 'Bout time I updated! :D I would like to thank my one favoriter and two followers, you have made me very happy. :)**

**So, chapter three, here we go!**

* * *

_Anaya's POV_

Lestrade leads us up a circular staircase. He and John wear coveralls along with white cotton coverings over their shoes and latex gloves. Sherlock and I pull on latex gloves as we climb up the stairs.

"I can give you two minutes.", says Lestrade.

"May need longer.", Sherlock replies casually.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards.", Lestrade continues, ignoring Sherlock. "We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

He leads us into a room on the third floor. The room is entirely empty except for a woman's body lying facedown on the floor, smack in the middle of it. She's wearing a bright pink overcoat and pink high-heels and her hands lie on either side of her head. Sherlock walks a few steps into the room, with me right behind him, and then stops, concentrating. Behind me, John looks at the woman's body and his face fills with pain. Hmm, shouldn't he be used to this? The four of us stand silently for several seconds, then Sherlock looks across to Lestrade, his intentions obvious. At least, to me they were.

"Shut up.", he snaps.

I nod in agreement.

"I didn't say anything.", Lestrade replies, a bit startled.

"You were thinking.", I say.

"It's annoying.", adds Sherlock.

I glare at him, but he pays me no heed. My brother and I might share the ability to obtain information from things we observe, but I tend to be less heavy on the insults...sometimes. He infuriates me sometimes.

Lestrade and John glance at each other in surprise as Sherlock steps forward until he's at the corpse's side. I kneel down on the other side. Our eyes are both drawn to the scratchings in the wood besides the woman's left hand that spell out _'Rache'_. We glance at each other. I get down on one knee to look at them more closely. My eyes flick to her fingernails where the index and middle nails are broken at the ends and the nail polish chipped, opposite to her other nails, which are completely immaculate. The woman's left index finger rests at the bottom of the _'e'_ as if she was still trying to carve into the floor when she died.

_'Left-handed, then.'_

Obvious so far.

Sherlock leans down to look at the scratchings more closely. As he does this, a suggestion springs into my mind:  
**  
Rache**  
_German_ _(n.)_ Revenge

I shake my head and Sherlock's dismissive look tells me he also thought of this, making the suggestion disappear. I look at the word again and, next to the _'e'_ , I attempt at completing the word. To my annoyance, Sherlock beats me to it.

"Rachel...", he whispers with a smile.

He squats down beside the woman's corpse and runs his hand along the back of her coat, then lifts his hand to look at his fingers. I can see they're wet. Rain. I reach in her coat pockets and I find a folded up white umbrella in one of them. I run my fingers across the umbrella's material, catching on to what Sherlock's thinking. I look at my glove. It's dry. Too much wind. I put the umbrella back in her coat pocket, move up to the collar of her coat, running my fingers underneath it. I check my fingers again. They're wet now. Turned it up then. Sherlock reaches inside his pocket he takes out a small magnifier. He clicks it open and inspects the small gold bracelet on her left wrist. Looking over his shoulder, which I know annoys him, I see that it's clean. He checks the gold earrings she's wearing. They're clean. The gold chain around her neck. Clean as well. He moves on to the rings on her left ring finger. The wedding and engagement rings tell a different story. They're both dirty. Rings, dirty, at least ten years old...:

_Married,  
Unhappily married,  
Unhappily married 10+ years_

Moving around Sherlock, I carefully take the wedding ring off the woman's finger and look closely at the inside. The outsides is dirty. Not cleaned. Yet, the inside is clean.

I slide the ring back onto the woman's finger, noticing Sherlock's glance towards the ring. By Sherlock's face, I can see that he knows as well.

_Regularly removed_

I remove my hands from the woman's body as I make a final deduction:

_Serial adulterer_

I smile. At my side, Sherlock smirks. He's figured it out too, then.

"Got anything?", asks Lestrade.

"Not much.", Sherlock replies casually.

_'Good God, can his ego get any larger?'_

He takes his gloves off and turns on his phone, beginning to type.

"She's German.", says Anderson, leaning in the doorway. "_'Rache'_, it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something…"

As he speaks, I walk forward and prepare to shut the door in his face.

_'Oh, people's comeplete and utter stupidity.'_

"Yes, thank you for your input.", I reply, my voice coated in sarcasm.

I proceed to slam the door on him and turn back to see what Sherlock is doing. I look over his shoulder, which, again, annoys him. He's looking at _'UK Weather'_. The menu gives him five options:

_Maps_

_ Local_

_Warnings _

_Next 24 hrs _

_7 day forecast_

He chooses _'Maps'_.

"So she's German?", Lestrade asks after a moment.

"Of course she's not.", I sigh.

"She's from out of town, though.", mutters Sherlock, still looking intently at his phone. "Intended to stay in London for one night..."

A smile plays on my lips as I see what he's looking at.

"Before coming back to Cardiff.", I finish.

Sherlock puts his phone away.

"So far, so obvious."

I nod.

"Sorry, obvious?", John asks.

"What about the message, though?", asks Lestrade.

Sherlock ignores him, and before I can explain, he turns to face John. Sherlock always did like being mysterious with his deductions.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?", he asks suddenly.

"Of the message?", John asks confusedly.

"Of the body.", Sherlock corrects him. "You're a medical man."

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside...", Lestrade explains.

"They won't work with us.", I snap.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here.", he retorts.

"Yes.", I confirm. "Yes you do."

"Because you need us.", Sherlock smirks.

Lestrade lets out a defeated sigh.

"Yes, I do. God help me.", he mutters.

"Doctor Watson.", continues Sherlock.

"Hm?"

John glances at the body, and then at Lestrade, as if asking permission.

"Oh, do as he says.", he grunts. "Help yourself."

He turns to go outside.

"Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes.", Lestrade orders.

The three of us move closer to the corpse. I kneel down on one side, Sherlock crouches down at the woman's head, and John painfully lowers himself down on the other side, leaning against his cane.

"Well?", I ask.

"What am I doing here?", John mutters.

"Helping us make a point.", I answer.

"I'm supposed to be helping you guys pay the rent.", he retorts.

"Yeah, well, this is more fun.", Sherlock breaks in.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead.", John deadpans.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper.", Sherlock replies.

Lestrade comes back into the room, leaning in the doorway, as John leans forward and sniffs the body. He straightens up slightly before lifting up her hand and looking at her skin. He glances at Sherlock and I.

"Yeah...", he sighs. "Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

"You know what it was. You've read the papers.", says Sherlock.

"What, she's one of the suicides? The fourth...?", he asks.

"Anaya, two minutes, I said. I need anything you two've got.", Lestrade interrupts.

He doesn't bother trying to alert Sherlock to our time limit, it's not like he would've answered. Sherlock stands and I help John as he struggles to get up from his kneeling position. Sherlock proceeds to give Lestrade our info.

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?", Lestrade asks incredulously.

I supress a small laugh at this while John glances around the room, looking for a suitcase.

"Suitcase, yes.", I confirm, hiding my laugh by clearing my throat. "She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up...", Lestrade warns.

Sherlock points down to the hand that wears her wedding ring.

"Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least.", he explains. "The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside; that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. They're immaculant. She doesn't work with her hands, so what, or rather, _who_, does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"That's brilliant.", John remarks, looking at Sherlock and I in amazement.

Sherlock turns to look at him questioningly. John tenses slightly.

"Sorry.", he says quickly.

I am about to asks what for, when Lestrade speaks.

_'Stupid people...'_

"Cardiff?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?", I snap, a bit ticked off at being cut off.

"It's not obvious to me.", John huffs.

Both Sherlock and I pause to look at the two men in front of us.

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains?", Sherlock wonders. "It must be so boring."

Well, my brother isn't going to answer, so I might as well.

"Her coat, it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind– too strong to use her umbrella."

John and Lestrade are still staring at us confusedly. Damn. Sherlock picks up where I leave off.

"We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?", Sherlock asks.

Sherlock takes out his phone again and shows the other two what he had been looking at before. His phone displays today's weather for the southern part of Britain. Cardiff.

"That's fantastic!", exclaims John.

"D'you know you do that out loud?", I say awkwardly.

"Sorry. I'll shut up.", John mutters.

I'm about to tell him that it's okay, but for once, Sherlock beats me to it.

"No, it's...fine.", he mutters.

"Why d'you keep saying suitcase?", Lestrade finally asks after a moment.

Sherlock spins around dramatically to look around the room. I roll my eyes and settle for just moving my head to glance around.

"Yes, where is it?", he asks. "She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?", asks Lestrade curiously.

"Nooo, she was leaving an angry note in German!", I answer in mock cheerfulness. "Of course she was writing Rachel; it can't be any other word. Question is, though, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?", Lestrade asks again.

Sherlock immediately points down to the back of the woman's legs, one of which holds tiny black splash marks.

"Back of the right leg, tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way.", he explains quickly. "Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious...it could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night."

I squat down to examine her legs a second time.

"Where is it?", I ask. "What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case."

Both Sherlock and I slowly turn our heads to look at Lestrade. I frown.

"Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

Sherlock and I simultaneously jump up and run out the door and down the spiral staircase.

"Suitcase!", Sherlock calls out. "Did anyone find a suitcase?"

"Was there a suitcase in this house?", I yell.

John and Lestrade follow us onto the landing, but we're already halfway down the stairs.

"Sherlock! Ugh... Anaya! There was no case!", Lestrade shouts.

I slow down a bit, but still continue follow Sherlock down the steps.

"But they take the poison themselves; they actually chew and swallow the pills themselves!", I call back up.

"There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them.", Sherlock adds.

"Right, yeah, thanks!", Lestrade deadpans. "And...?"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings– serial killings.", explains Sherlock.

I hold my hands up in delight.

"We've got ourselves a serial killer!", I squeal. "I love those. There's always something to look forward to..."

"Why are you saying that?", Lestrade asks.

From Lestrade's face, Sherlock's and my enthusiasm is slightly unnerving. Oh, well, we finally have a serial killer case! Sherlock finally stops descending down the stairs, causing me to screech to a halt barely one step above him.

"Her case!", he exclaims in exasperation. "Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it!? Someone else was here, and they took her case."

_'They took her case...'_

Something occurs to me. I glance at Sherlock with a thoughtful look on my face.

"So the killer must have driven her here, forgetting the case was in the car.", I tell Sherlock.

He nods, a smirk beginning to form on his face.

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there.", John suggests.

Sherlock looks back up at him.

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking...", he falters mid-sentance, realizing something.

Unfortunately, for once, I'm not quite following his train of thought.

"What?", I ask.

"Oh...", Sherlock whispers.

He ignores me, much to my growing annoyance. His face visibly lights up and he claps is hands together in delight. I'm not getting anything out of him, then. I'll need to replay his reasoning then.

_'Okay,_ backtrack...',I think._ 'Color-cordinates, styles hair. Fashion concious then...lipstick, shoes, coat, all ar- Oh...'_

It takes a moment, but I finally catch on.

"Oh!", I smile.

"Sherlock? Anaya?", John asks.

Lestrade leans over the railing.

"What is it, what?", he asks, desperate to be let in on the secret.

Sherlock and I continue smiling. My brother's smile becomes a smirk when he sees me figure it out.

"Serial killers are always hard.", he remarks. "You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!", Lestrade cries out.

"Oh, we're done waiting!", I shout back up.

Sherlock begins decending down the stairs again. I follow him down as he shouts up at Lestrade.

"Get on to Cardiff, find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!", he yells.

We reach the bottom, temporarily disappearing from Lestrade and John's view.

"Of course, yeah- but what mistake!?", shouts Lestrade.

Sherlock is already lost in his thoughts, so I quickly run back up a few steps, coming back into their sight.

"PINK!", I shout, then turn and run back down again after Sherlock.

* * *

_3rd Person POV_

Lestrade turns and goes back into the room, Anderson and his lot following him in.

"Let's get on with it.", says Anderson.

John hesitates for a moment on the landing for a moment. He sighs and hobbles down the stairs. Once outside the building, after removing his coverall and putting back on his jacket, he walks out onto the street. He glances around himself, seeing no sign of either of the Holmes sibling. He heads towards the police tape, and sees Donovan. She notices him.

"They're gone.", she says.

"Who, Sherlock and Anaya Holmes?", asks John.

Donovan nods.

"Yeah, they just took off. They do that."

"Are either of them coming back?"

"Didn't look like it.", shrugs Donovan.

"Right.", John mutters, looking at the area around himself, unsure of what to do. "Right...yes. Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton.", replies Donovan.

"Right. Er...do you know where I could get a cab? It's just, er...well..."

He looks down awkwardly at feet.

"...my leg."

"Oh, uh...", she sighs, lifting the tape up for him. "...try the main road."

John ducks underneath the tape.

"Thanks."

"But you're not their friend.", she says suddenly. "They don't have friends, just themselves. And even then they don't usually tolerate each other. So who are you?"

John turns back to look at her.

"I'm...I'm nobody. I just met them."

"Okay, bit of advice then.", she says. "Stay away from those two."

"Why?"

"You know why they're here? Their not paid or anything, either of them. They like it. They get off on it.", she whispers. "The weirder the crime, the more they get off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock and/or Anaya Holmes be the ones that put it there."

"Why would either of them do that?", John asks.

"Because they're psychopaths. And psychopaths get bored."

Suddenly, Lestrade's voice is heard from inside.

"Donovan!"

"Coming!", she calls.

She turns to walk towards the house.

"Stay away from Sherlock and Anaya Holmes.", she warns.

John lingers for a minute, then turns and begins to limp off down the road. He gets about halfway down, when the phone in a public telephone box begins to ring. He stops to looks at it for a moment. He checks his watch and shakes his head, continuing down the road. The phone stops ringing as he limps off. Continuing down the road, he unsuccessfully tries to hail a cab.

"Taxi! Taxi..."

The taxis pass him by. Suddenly, the payphone next to John begins ringing. He turns and sees one of the staff from a nearby restaurant go to answer, but before he can, it stops. He continues down the street, and soon enough, he reaches another telephone box. Once again, the phone inside starts to ring. Puzzled, John hobbles over and answer.

"Hello?"

A man's voice is heard.

'There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

John frowns.

"Who's this? Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?", the voice asks again.

John looks up at the CCTV camera on the wall of a nearby building.

"Yeah, I see it."

"Watch.", instructs the man.

The camera, which had been pointing at the payphone, turns away.

"There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?", ask the man.

John looks over at the second camera, which is also pointed at the phone booth.

"Mm-hmm..."

The camera immediately looks away.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."

John stares up into another camera, which is watching him, but it turns away.

"How are you doing this?", John demands.

"Get into the car, Doctor Watson.", says the man.

A black car pulls up at the curb near the John. A driver comes out and opens the door for him.

"I would make some sort of threat,", the man sighs, ", but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

The man abruptly hangs up. John puts it down, getting out of the booth, and walks toward the car. Not much more he can do at the moment. He gets in, and next to him is a pretty young woman, typing away on her Blackberry. She's ignoring him.

"Hello.", says John, trying to make conversation.

The woman smiles at him for a moment before looking back down at her phone.

"Hi."

"What's your name, then?", John asks.

"Er...", the woman hesitates. "Anthea."

"Is that your real name?", John asks dubiously.

She smiles.

"No."

John nods awkwardly.

"I'm John.", he remarks.

"Yes. I know.", she smiles.

"Any point in asking where I'm going?"

"None at all...", says 'Not-Anthea'.

She turns and smiles at him, then looks down at her phone again.

"...John."

"Okay.", John sighs.

After a short car ride, they pull up to an empty warehouse. John gets out of the car, but 'Not-Anthea' remains seated. Sighing, he enters the warehouse. A man in a neat suit is standing in the centre of the warehouse, leaning casually on a large umbrella as he watches John get out of the car. In front of him is an armless chair facing in the man's direction. He points to it with the point of his umbrella when John begins limping towards the center of the room.

"Have a seat, John.", he offers.

John's voice is calm, but overlaid with annoyance and a pissed-off tone as he speak.

"You know, I've got a phone. I mean, this is very clever and all that, but er...you could just phone me. On my _phone_."

He walks past the chair and towards the gentleman in front of him.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes and Anaya Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.", says the man with a suspiciously pleasant tone. "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't wanna sit down.", John frowns.

The man gives him a look.

"You don't seem very afraid.", he remarks interestedly.

"You don't seem very frightening.", John replies 'as a matter of fact'.

The man ahead of him chuckles.

"Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier.", he smiles. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

He stops smiling and begins to address John with a sterner tone.

"What are your connections to Sherlock Holmes and Anaya Holmes?", he asks seriously.

"I don't have any. I barely know either of them. I met them...", John hesitates, realizing how little time has actually passed. "...yesterday."

"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with them and now you're solving crimes together.", says the man thoughtfully. "Might we expect some sort of happy announcement from you and Miss Holmes by the end of the week?"

_'At least this guy isn't automatically assuming I'm gay...'_, John thinks with a frown.

"Who are you?", John demands after the thought passes.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock and Anaya? Why?", asks John. "I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met them. How many 'friends' do you imagine they have?", he asks. "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock and Anaya Holmes are capable of having besides themselves."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In their minds, certainly. If you were to ask either of them, they'd probably say arch-enemy. They do love to be dramatic, especially Sherlock.", the man adds.

John looks pointedly at the room around him and says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "Well, thank God you're above all that."

The man frowns and a few seconds later, John's phone announces a text message. John ignores the man in front of him and digs in his jacket pocket, taking out his phone and opening it. He checks his phone and has one text message. The message reads:

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. AH_

"I hope I'm not distracting you.", the man remarks.

_'Now who could that be...?'_, John thinks sarcastically.

"Not distracting me at all.", John assures him aloud, putting his phone away.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes and Anaya Holmes?", asks the man.

"I could be wrong...", John replies sarcastically, "...but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

"It really couldn't."

The man takes a notebook out and consults it.

"If you do move into, um...", he squints. "Two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

He closes and pockets the notebook.

"Why?", John asks.

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel...uncomfortable with. Just tell me what the pair are update up to.", the man instructs.

"Why?", John asks again.

"I worry about them. Constantly."

"That's nice of you.", John deadpans.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned.", the man explains. "We three have what you might call a...difficult relationship."

John's phone is heard again. He takes the phone out and looks at the new message. It reads:

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

_'Oh..! And who's this?'_, John mentally growls.

"No.", he answers automatically.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure.", says the man.

John puts his phone away.

"Don't bother."

The man laughs.

"You're very loyal, very quickly.", he remarks.

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."

The man takes out his notebook again. He gestures at it to show he's reading aloud.

"'Trust issues', it says here."

For the first time, John begins looking uneasy.

"What's that?", he demands.

The man's still looking at his notebook.

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes and Anaya Holmes of all the people in the world?"

"Who says I trust them?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done?", John asks, exasperated.

The man looks up.

"You tell me."

John stares at him for second, a bit surprised, then turns around limps towards the door.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from them, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

John stops dead in his tracke. His shoulders tense and he angrily shakes his head. He's clearly furious as he quickly turns around to face the man.

"My wot?", John demands angrily through bared teeth. **(Did anyone else notice how his 'what' was more of a 'wot'? Cuz I did. :))**

"Show me.", the man orders calmly.

He has nods towards John's left hand and plants the tip of his umbrella on the floor, leaning casually on it like he expects to have his order obeyed. John, however, is not intimidated and shifts his feet underneath himself, firmly planting himself on the raises his left hand and stands in place.

_'He wants to see my hand? Well, let him come for it.'_, John thinks stubbornly.

The man strolls forward, unaffected by John's defiance, and tucks his umbrella under his arm. He reaches for John's hand and John immediately pulls it back a bit.

"Don't."

The man raises his eyebrows at John, giving the impression that he's saying, _'Did I mention trust issues?'_. John, very reluctantly, gives him his hand, holding it out flat with the palm down. The man takes it in his hands looks closely at it.

"Remarkable.", he mutters.

John snatches it away.

"What is?"

The man strolls slowly away from him.

"Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with both Sherlock Holmes and Anaya Holmes, you see the battlefield. The whole of London.", he smirks, look back at John again. "You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?", John demands, ignoring the man's previous question.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand."

John nods tightly.

"Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service.", the man continues.

A muscle in John's cheek twitches repeatedly as he looks ahead at the man a few steps away. He takes takes a small steps forward and scowls.

"Who the hell are you?", John demands, the anger and stress in his voice evident. "How do you know that?"

"Fire her.", the man ignores him. "She's got it the wrong way 'round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady."

John's eyes glances down at the steady object in question before returning back to the man, struggling to hold back anger.

"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson...you miss it."

He leans forward and closes the small between them.

John reluctantly raises his eyes to his as the man whispers, "Welcome back."

He begins to walk away as John's phone announces a new text. The man twirls his umbrella casually as he walks.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson."

John stands there for a moment, then turns as the car door opens and 'Anthea' gets out. She walks a couple steps towards him, her attention still on her BlackBerry.

"I'm to take you home.", she announces in a monotone.

He looks at her for a second, then stops and takes out his phone and checks the new text message. It reads:

_Could be dangerous. SH_

He pockets his phone and holds out his left hand in front of him, studying the lack of tremor coming from it. He smiles bitterly.

"Address?", asks 'Anthea'.

John glances up at her.

"Er...Baker Street. Two two one B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first..."

* * *

John opens the door into his old room and turns on the light. He closes the door behind him and heads to his desk, opening a drawer and taking out a pistol. He checks the clip and tucks the his gun into the waistband of his jeans, turning to leave again as another text alert is heard. He sighs and checks his phone for the fourth time that night. The text reads:

_Sherlock's an idiot. Take your time. AH_

* * *

**A./N. Sooo...? Do you like? I hope you guys do. :)**

**Really my dear readers, if you read this and like it, take the time to review or at least follow or fav it. Every review, follow, and/or fav makes me SQUEAL with delight! Really! And, I always check out the profile of every single person who reviews, follows, and/or favs my story(ies)! So if you review or follow or fav, I will check out your stories (if you have any). :) I will update when I can, my dear readers.**

**REVIEW**

**In honor the time John punched Sherlock in ASiB. :) Or the time Sherlock sat in Buckingham Palace wearing only a sheet. Or...*continues to remember moments from ASiB***

**REVIEW**


	4. A Study In Pink: Part 4

**A./N. Well helloooo, new chapter. :)**

**First, I would like to thank the following people:**

**LoveFollowsMe, Twilight Dark Angel, hpharvliviantojack4eva, and laura mulwray, thank you so much for following this story! ^^**

**sissy21 and (again!) Twilight Dark Angel, thanks for favoriting this! :D**

**And finally, special thanks to angel897 for being my first reviewer. You made me squee when I saw the notification in my inbox! ^^**

**Okay! Let's get on to the story! :)**

* * *

The black car pulls up outside 221B Baker Street. 'Anthea' is still diligently typing on her phone when John turns to her.

"Listen, your boss– any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?"

"Sure."

John stares at her for a moment.

"You've told him already, haven't you?"

She briefly smiles at him.

"Yeah."

After an awkward and failed attempt at flirting with her, John gets out and closes the door, then walks over to 221B. He knocks on the door and waits for an answer.

* * *

Upstairs, Sherlock lies stretched out on the sofa, his head resting on a cushion. His jacket is off, his shirt sleeves pushed up, and his eyes closed. He presses the bottom of his hand firmly onto just below the elbow of his right hand, and, after a few moments, his eyes snap open. A relaxed sigh escapes his lips, causing his sister, Anaya, to look up irritatedly from her book. She sits on a large, dark grey cushion in between the room's two armchairs, reading a thick black book. At that moment, John comes in through the door, then stops and stares as Sherlock repeatedly clenches and unclenches his right fist. Anaya lets loose a sigh and lowers her book.

"Must you make so make so much noise when doing that?", she asks.

"Hmm..."

John closes the door behind and him steps further into the room.

"Um, what are you doing?", he asks Sherlock.

"Nicotine patch.", Sherlock explains. "Helps me think."

"Does not.", scoffs Anaya.

Sherlock lifts his right hand, showing that he has three round nicotine patches stuck to his arm. That's what he had been pressing onto his skin earlier.

"I don't smoke as much as Sherlock does, so my urges aren't as strong. I have no need for patches, unless I'm bored.", adds Anaya.

"Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.", Sherlock continues.

"It's good news for breathing.", John counters.

"Oh, breathing.", Sherlock sighs. "Breathing's boring."

"Unless you want to live, dear brother."

Anaya goes back to her book with a small smile. John frowns as he looks at Sherlock's arm a bit more closely.

"Is that three patches Sherlock?", he asks.

"It's 'a three-patch problem'.", Anaya explains without looking up from her book.

Sherlock doesn't react, only closes his eyes. After a quick glance around, John turns towards Anaya.

"Well? You asked me to come. I'm assuming it's important."

"Ask my brother, he's who told me to text you."

"Okay, then. Why am I here, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes snap open. He doesn't bother turning his head as he responds.

"Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?", he asks.

"My phone?"

"Don't wanna use mine or Anaya's. Always a chance that one of the numbers will be recognised. It's on our website."

"Mrs Hudson's got a phone.", John retorts.

"Yeah, she's downstairs.", Anaya mutters. "We tried shouting, but she didn't hear."

John's hands clench in anger and takes a step forward.

"I was the other side of London.", he growls.

"There was no hurry.", Sherlock replies casually.

John glares at him.

"I told you Sherlock was an idiot.", Anaya remarks. "What did he tell? 'It's a matter of narional security'? 'We're in danger'?"

John angrily gets his phone out of his pocket, ignoring Anaya, and holds it to Sherlock.

"Here.", he says tightly.

But Sherlock's eyes remain close and he doesn't move. John growls and turns away from him, offering the phone to Anaya instead. She holds out her hand and John angrily slaps the phone into it. She winces as he walks back to the middle of the room.

"So what's this about– the case?", he asks.

"_Her_ case.", Sherlock correct quietly, his eyes still closed.

"Her case?"

Sherlock finally opens his eyes.

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake."

"Okay, he took her case. So?", John asks.

"It's no use, there's no other way.", Sherlock mutters to himself. "We'll have to risk it. On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text, John."

John half-smiles in angry disbelief.

"You brought me here...to send a text.", he growls tightly.

Sherlock is oblivious to this, but Anaya winces at John's growing anger.

"Text, yes. The number's on my desk.", Sherlock repeats.

Sherlock is also oblivious to the fact that Anaya has the phone and not John. He folds his hands under his chin and closes his eyes again.

Anaya sighs and mutters, "Sorry, John. I'll do it."

Instead of going to the table though, she gets up off her cushion and walks over to the window and looks out into the street below. Sherlock's eyes open and he tilts his head slightly, finally noticing the tension.

"What's wrong?", he asks.

"Oh, nothing at all, Sherlock.", Anaya replies sarcastically. "Nothing whatsoever."

Sherlock frowns, but before he can answer, John speaks.

"Just met a friend of your guys'.", he remarks.

Sherlock turns to look at John and Anaya lowers her eyebrows confusedly.

"A...friend?", she asks.

"An enemy.", he corrects himself.

Sherlock visibly relaxes.

"Oh. Which one?"

"Your arch-enemy, according to him."

John finally looks at Sherlock.

"Do people have arch-enemies?", he asks.

Anaya narrows her eyes thoughtfully before speaking.

"Did he offer you money to spy on us?", she asks suddenly.

"Yes.", John answers.

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee.", Anaya sighs. "Think it through next time."

"Who is he?", John asks, ignoring Anaya's 'money advice'.

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not our problem right now.", Sherlock replies quietly, then continues in his normal voice, "On my desk John, the number."

Anaya glares at him, but Sherlock is already looking away again.

"Sherlock, _I_ have the phone."

"Yes, the number; on my desk."

She sighs angrily, but walks across the room, leaving the window, and picks up a piece of paper on Sherlock's desk taken from a luggage label. John comes over and glances at the name on the paper.

"Jennifer Wilson. That was...hang on.", he mutters. "Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number.", Sherlock commands.

John shakes his head and Anaya has to restrain herself from flipping he brother off. Honestly, the only time they even remotely agree on anything is while investigating a crime scene or while on case. And even then they still argue sometimes.

"Are you doing it?", Sherlock asks after a moment.

"Piss off Sherlock; yes I'm doing it."

"Have you done it?", Sherlock asks again.

"God damn...yes!"

"These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.'"

Anaya starts to type while John gives Sherlock a funny look. Sherlock continues regardless.

"'22 Northumberland Street. Please come.'", he intructs.

Anaya types in what Sherlock says. Finally, John can't hold his question in any longer.

"You blacked out?", he asks.

Anaya giggles.

"What? No. No!", Sherlock cries out in exasperation.

He finally decides tonstands up, taking the shortest route towards the kitchen– which involves walking straight over the coffee table beside the sofa rather than around it.

"Type and send it.", he instructs. "Quickly."

He heads into the kitchen, then comes back with a small pink suitcase. He picks up one of the dining chairs and flips it around, putting it down in front of one of the armchairs near the fireplace. Sherlock then places the suitcase on the chair and sits down in the armchair. Anaya is still typing as he does this.

"Have you sent it?", Sherlock asks.

"What does it look like, Sherlock?", Anaya asks with a smirk, though still typing.

"Hurry up!"

"Shut up! Don't rush me!", she snaps.

She finishes typing and sends the massages. John watches as Sherlock unzips the case and flips open the lid. Inside the case there are a few items of clothing and underwear– all in various shades of pink– as well as a washbag and paperback novel. As John looks more closely at the case, he staggers slightly in shock as he realizes what he's looking at.

"That's...that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case.", he says.

"Yes, obviously.", repiles Sherlock, inspecting the suitcase.

John continues to stare while Anaya holds out his phone to him and she sighs.

"Oh, perhaps I should mention: we didn't kill her.", she smiles sarcastically.

"I never said you guys did.", John defended.

"Why not?", she asks. "Given the text Sherlock just had me send on your phone and the fact that we have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption.

"Do people usually assume one of you two is the murderer?", John asks.

"Now and then, yes.", Sherlock smirks, putting his hands onto the arms of the armchair and lifting his feet up under him so that he is now perched on the chair with his back against the chair. Anaya chuckles.

"More often they think we _both_ did it...because we make _such_ a good team. Right, oh, dear brother of mine?", she asks, her voice coated with sarcasm.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and ignores her question.

"Okay...", John mutters.

He walks over to the other armchair and plops down on it.

"Then how did you two get this?", he asks.

"By looking.", Anaya answers, coming over and moving her large grey cushion to just in front of John's armchair, a bit to the side, and sitting down on it with her legs crossed.

"Looking where?", John asks.

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention– particularly a man, which is statistically more likely– so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it.", Sherlock explains. "Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. We checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed."

"It took us less than an hour to find the right skip.", Anaya smiles.

John stares at the case for a moment longer before speaking.

"Pink.", John realizes, looking down at Anaya. "You guys got all that because you realized the case would be pink?"

"Well, it had to be pink, obviously.", says Anaya.

"Why didn't I think of that?", John mutters to himself.

"Because you're an idiot."

Both John and Anaya look startled as they glance up at Sherlock.

"No, no, no, don't look like that, John.", he sighs. "Practically everyone is."

He points at the case like nothing happened, ignoring the angry looks Anaya gives him

"Now, look. Do you see what's missing?", he asks.

Anaya can already see what's missing, but she lets John speak before she answers.

"From the case? How could I?", John asks.

"Her phone. Where's her mobile phone?", asks Anaya. "There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case."

"We know she has one- that's her number there; you just texted it, Anaya.", Sherlock says.

"Maybe she left it at home.", John suggests.

Sherlock raises himself up on the armchair so he can lower his feet to the floor, sitting down properly on the chair.

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home.", he says.

He puts the slip of paper back into the luggage label on the case, then turns to John with an expectant look on his face. Anaya suppresses her laughter at John's expression.

"Er...why did Anaya...just send that text...with my phone?", he asks, looking down at the item in question in his hand.

"Well, the question is: where is her phone now?", Anaya asks.

"She could have lost it.", John suggests hopefully.

"Yes,", Anaya agrees. "Or...?

"The murderer...", John says slowly. "You think the murderer has the phone?"

"Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.", Sherlock explains.

"Sorry, what are we doing?", John asks. "Did Anaya just text a murderer using _my phone_!? What good will that do?

As if on cue, John's phone rings. He checks the Caller ID. It says:

**_(Withheld)_**

_Calling_

He looks down at Anaya as his phone rings.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer...", she pauses and continues when the phone stops ringing, "...would panic.

Sherlock flips closed the suitcase lid and stands up, walking across the room to pick up his jacket. John continues staring at his phone as Sherlock shrugs his jacket on and Anaya follows his lead. She gets up off her cushion and pulls her sweater on, then heads towards the door behind Sherlock. John finally tears his eyes away from his phone to look at them.

"Have you talked to the police?", he asks.

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police.", Anaya deadpans.

"So why are you two talking to me?", John asks.

Sherlock reaches behind the door and grabs his and Anaya's coats from the hooks, giving hers to her. He glances at John, then notices that something is missing from the mantelpiece.

"Mrs Hudson took my skull.", he remarks and Anaya rolls her eyes.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull, Sherlock?", John asks.

"Relax, you're doing fine.", Sherlock assures him, putting his coat on.

John, however, doesn't move.

"Well?", Anaya asks him.

"Well what?"

Anaya shrugs.

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly."

"What, you want me to come with you two?", John asks.

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud.", Sherlock adds. "The skull just attracts attention, and Anaya is, admittedly, too smart to have to explain things to. That is the only time I will ever say that by the way."

Anaya sighs in defeat at her brother's last sentence and smiles at John.

"Hm. And I need help keeping my brother in check. Besides, having someone aside from Sherlock to talk to would makes things a bit easier. So...", she trails off.

John briefly smiles back, then it disappears as he looks thoughtfully at the two detectives in front of him.

"Problem?", Anaya asks.

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."

Sherlock looks away in exasperation and Anaya makes a face.

"What about her?", she asks.

"Well, she said...she said you both get off on this. You enjoy it.", he answers.

Sherlock turns back to look at him.

"And we said 'dangerous', and here you are.", he counters.

He strides out of the door, leaving Anaya and John alone. John sits thoughtfully for another moment, then leans onto his cane to get to his feet and heads towards the door angrily.

"Damn it!", he cries.

He walks out the door in a huff, causeing to Anaya smile in amusement as she follows him out the door.


	5. A Study In Pink: Part 5

**A./N. Soooo...I have no excuses. . Maybe if I update chapter 6 too? Would that help? Mm-kay. Just...tell me if I should keep writing this. Just a little review saying 'Please keep updating' or something of the like. :/ **

**Anyway, on with the story.**

* * *

He walks out the door in a huff and Anaya smiles in amusement as she follows him out the door. A short while later, John and Anaya catch up to Sherlock and they continue down the street together.

"Where are we going?", John asks.

"Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here.", Sherlock explains.

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?", John asks.

Anaya smiles from her spot in between them.

"No, we think he's _brilliant_ enough. I love the brilliant ones.", Anaya says happily. "They're always so desperate to get caught."

"Why?"

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight.", Sherlock explains. "That's the frailty of genius, John; it needs an audience."

John looks at both of them pointedly.

"Yeah..."

Sherlock is oblivious to his implication and Anaya is too busy thinking to care. Sherlock spins around dramatically to indicate the entire area around them as he continues down the road.

"This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go.", he says thoughtfully, holding his hands up to the sides of his head to focus his thoughts.

"Think!", cries Anaya suddenly, startling John, and coming out of her mind. "Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"Dunno.", John sighs. "Who?"

Sherlock shrugs and Anaya scrunches up her face.

"Haven't the faintest.", she says. "Hungry?"

She points towards a small restaurant and Sherlock leads them in. The waiter at the door sees Anaya and him, obvious knowing them, and gestures at table placed in front of the window with a 'Reserved' sign on it.

"Thank you, Billy.", says Sherlock.

Sherlock takes off his coat and sits down on the seat at the side of the table, immediately turning sideways so that he can see clearly out of the window. Anaya plops down next to him and shrugs off her own coat. Billy takes the 'Reserved' sign off the table as John sits down on the other seat with his back to the window, taking his jacket off.

"22 Northumberland Street.", says Sherlock, nodding at a building outside. "Keep your eyes on it."

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he?", John asks. "He'd need to be mad."

"He's killed four people.", Anaya deadpans.

"...okay."

Anaya smiles slightly and gets up.

"I need to go to the loo, I'll be right back. Have fun boys."

She strides away, leaving John and Sherlock alone. A minute after she leaves, a man, who is obviously either the manager or owner of the restaurant, comes over to their table. He seems pleased to see Sherlock.

"Sherlock.", he smiles, shaking Sherlock's hand. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and your date."

"Do you want to eat?", Sherlock asks John, turning to look at him.

John ignores his question and looks at the manager/owner.

"I'm not his date."

The man ignores him.

"This man got me off a murder charge.", he declares.

"This is Angelo.", says Sherlock as the man offers a hand to John, who shakes it. "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name.", Angelo tells John.

"I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite?", Sherlock asks.

"Nothing.", he reports, then turns to John, "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison.", Sherlock tells him.

Angelo ignores this.

"I'll get a candle for the table.", he winks. "It's more romantic."

As Angelo walks away, John calls after him, "I'm not his date!"

Angelo, however, continues walking.

"You may as well eat. We might have a long wait.", Sherlock remarks.

Angelo comes back a few moments later with a small glass bowl holding a lit tea-light. He puts it onto the table and gives John a thumbs-up before turning and walking away again.

"Thanks!", says John tetchily.

* * *

Later, Anaya has come back and John has a plate of food in front of him and is eating from it. Anaya is eating a bag of crisps and her and Sherlock's attention is fixed out the window.

"People don't have arch-enemies.", John says suddenly.

Anaya turns to look at him, and Sherlock too after a moment.

"I'm sorry?", asks Anaya.

"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life.", John continues. "Doesn't happen."

Sherlock turns back to the window, disinterested, but Anaya continues looking at John, curious about what his point is.

"Doesn't it?", she asks.

Sherlock is still looking out the window as he adds, "Sounds a bit dull."

Anaya finds herself absently nodding in agreement.

"So who did I meet?", John asks them.

"What do real people have, then?", asks Sherlock, side-stepping his question.

"In _'real lives'_?", Anaya adds.

"Friends; people they know; people they like, people they don't like...girlfriends, boyfriends...", John explains.

"Yes, well, as I was saying– dull.", says Sherlock.

Anaya stretches as John speaks.

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

Anaya smiles at John's question.

_'Of course Sherlock doesn't have one.'_

Sherlock looks out the window as he says, "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Mm."

After a moment, John speaks again, seeing some significance in Sherlock's statement.

"Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?", John asks as Sherlock turns and looks at him sharply while Anaya suppresses and amused smile.

"Which is fine, by the way.", he adds quickly.

"I know it's fine.", Sherlock answers as John smiles to show that it's fine with him.

"So you've got a boyfriend, then?", John asks.

"No."

Anaya bites her lip to stop her on coming laughter at the awkward turn their conversation has taken. She decides it's better to remain silent and wait and see.

John smiles awkwardly as he says, "Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me."

He looks awkwardly down at his plate, apparently out of things to say.

"Fine.", he says, then clears his throat. "Good."

He starts to eat again as Anaya looks at him with an amused smile. She sees Sherlock look at him suspiciously for a moment, but he quickly turns his attention back to the window again. Sherlock never was good at small talk. Suddenly, she sees Sherlock replay John's statement in his head, and he looks a bit startled. He turns his head to look at John and begins to speak quickly, his awkwardness evident.

"John, um...I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any..."

Anaya can't hold it in any longer, she bursts out laughing.

"No!", John interrupts at the same time Anaya begins laughing.

"Oh, God, Sherlock...John...", she gasps.

Clearing his throat while glaring at Anaya, John says awkwardly, "No, I'm not asking. No."

He looks directly at Sherlock, as if trying to show his sincerety.

"I'm just saying, it's all fine."

Sherlock is silent a moment, looking at him, then nods.

"Good. Thank you.", he says.

As he turns his attention back to the street, John looks away with an bemused expression on his face. He glances up at Anaya, who merely smiles mockingly at him. Before he can begin to argue with her, Sherlock nods out of the window and speaks.

"Look across the street.", he instructs. "Taxi."

John twists in his seat and Anaya turns her head to look out the window. A taxi is parked on the side of the road with its back towards them.

"Stopped.", Anaya realizes. "Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out."

In the back of the taxi someone is looking through the side windows, as if looking for someone.

"Why a taxi?", Anaya asks herself, looking away from the window and at her hands, which lay on the table.

"Oh, that's clever.", Sherlock mutters, still looking out the window. "Is it clever? Why is it clever...?"

"That's him?", John asks.

"Don't stare.", Sherlock commands.

John turns back around.

"You're staring."

"We can't all stare."

Anaya looks up and stands, putting on her coat and scarf in the process while Sherlock follows behind her. John grabs his own jacket and follows them. She vaguely notices that John left his walking cane behind as the trio walks outside. Sherlock shrugs on his coat while instructing Anaya to keep her eyes on the taxi.

"I don't need you to tell me, I'm already doing that."

Sherlock ignores her and wraps his scarf around his neck. The passenger continues looking around himself, then finally he turns to look out the back window. He glances at the restaurant and looks at it for a moment, meeting Anaya's stare. He looks away and faces forward as the taxi begins to pull away from the curb. Sherlock sees this and immediately starts towards it, Anaya right behind him, and not bothering to check for cars on the road they're running into. Sherlock is almost run over by a car and Anaya tries to momentarily pull him back. The driver slams on the brakes and stops the car, but Sherlock shrugs off Anaya hand on his shoulder and continues forward towards the car's bonnet. Anaya sighs, but she follows Sherlock as he rolls over the bonnet and lands on the other side, running after the taxi. They run up the road a bit before Sherlock sees that they're not going to catch the cab and stops, Anaya yelling at him for his stupidity, while John catches up to them.

"Don't ever do that again! You bloody idiot!", Anaya reprimands him. "Jumping in front of goddamn car!"

Sherlock nods absently, but otherwise ignores her yelling. Anaya turns to look at John as he comes up to them.

"I've got the cab number.", he reports.

"Good for you.", Sherlock replies curtly.

Anaya is about to swat the back of his head, when Sherlock lifts his hands to the sides of his head, beginning to concentrate on something. He brings up a mental map of the local area in his mind.

"Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights.", he says quickly.

He lowers his hands as Anaya notices a man unlocking a nearby building. In her mind, a signpost saying, **'ALTERNATIVE ROUTE'** pops up.

"Sherlock!"

He turns and sees what she's gesturing at. He nods and Anaya and he run towards the man. She reaches him first and pushes past him as he borther does the same and runs into the building after her. All three of them participate in an extensive chase after the cab that ends with them racing down an alleyway towards the interception point Sherlock predicted. Finally, Sherlock rockets out of a side street and hurls himself into the path of the approaching cab, which screeches to a halt as he crashes hard into the bonnet. Anaya and John are right after him, and Anaya growls when she sees Sherlock jump in front of a car _again_. She decides to yell at Sherlock later as she takes out an ID badge from her coat pocket and shows it to the driver.

"Police! Open 'er up!", she shouts, panting.

Sherlock walks to the side of the cab pulls open the back door. He stares at the passenger inside, who looks back at him anxiously. He straightens up in exasperation as John and Anaya join him.

"No.", he sighs.

Anaya leans down to check out the passenger.

"Teeth, tan..._what_? _Californian_?", she asks incredulously.

She glances at something on the floor.

"L.A., Santa Monica. Nngh...he's just arrived."

Sherlock grimaces as she straightens up.

"How can you possibly know that?", John asks her.

"The luggage.", Sherlock explains.

He looks down at the suitcase on the floor of the cab and its luggage label shows that the man has flown from LAX, Los Angeles International Airport, to LHR, London Heathrow Airport.

"It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?", he asks the passenger.

"Sorry, are you guys the police?", the man asks confusedly.

"Yeah. Everything all right?", Anaya asks, flashing her ID badge.

"Yeah.", he replies, smiling.

Anaya pauses for a moment, wondering how to finish this conversation. Sherlock saves her by smiling falsely at the man.

"Welcome to London."

He immediately walks away and leaves Anaya and John alone with the passenger. John hesitates for a moment before stepping closer to the passenger.

"Er, any problems, just let us know.", he says.

The man nods and John smiles at him politely before closing the taxi door. Anaya walks away with a faint blush on her cheeks from embarrassment. John joins her next to Sherlock, who is standing a few yards behind the taxi.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down.", John says.

"Basically.", Anaya sighs.

"Not the murderer."

"Not the murderer, no.", Sherlock replies, exasperated.

"Wrong country, good alibi.", John remarks.

"As they go.", Anaya replies.

Without warning, she suddenly brings up her hand behind Sherlock's head and smacks it. John's eyes widen slightly in surprise as Sherlock turns around angrily.

"And what, may I ask, was _that _for?" he demands.

Anaya glares at him.

"You _idiot_!", she fumes. "I tell you not to jump in front of another damn car, and that's exactly what you do!"

Sherlock groans in annoyance and turns away from her.

"You are not my mother. I can take care of myself, you know.", he growls.

"Ha! Like hell you can! You'd be dead by now if it weren't for me.", she smirks.

Without turning around, Sherlock glances at her superior look.

"Oh, you _wish_.", he grins.

"Screw you.", his sister smiles, rolling her eyes.

John just stands there, wondering how exactly they went from fuming at each other, to sharing a joke. He shakes his head to clear it and sighs, he'd never understand how they worked. It's then that he notices the ID card she used earlier in her hand.

"Hey, where...where did you get this? Here."

He reaches for the card and Anaya lets him grab it.

"Right.", he says, looking at the name on the card. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah. Sherlock and I pickpocket him when he gets annoying.", she explains. "You can keep that one."

"We've got plenty at the flat.", Sherlock adds absently.

John nods, then looks down at the card again before lifting his head and giggling quietly.

"What?", Sherlock asks.

"Nothing, just...'Welcome to London'?", he asks.

Sherlock chuckles and Anaya smiles slightly. She happens to glance down the road where a police officer is investigating why the cab stopped in the middle of the road. The passenger is outside the cab and pointing down the road towards the trio.

"Er...got your breath back guys?", she asks them.

Sherlock nods.

"Ready whenever you are.", John smiles.

They turn and run down the road.

* * *

**A./N. I know, I know, it's a bit short. But I'll get chapter 7 out tomorrow or on Friday, kay? **

**Besides that, I was thinking about writing a TeenLock story with Sherlock, John, and one of my OCs, Erica Zamora. Should I? Because I've actually already written 3 chapters of it (it's a good way to pass the time) and I wanted to know if anREVIEWyone would read it. :)**

**~Shadow**

**REVIEW**

**Because my friend who I am trying to get into BBC Sherlock thinks Jim Moriarty is hot. And I agree.**

**REVIEW**


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